P.F.S. Post

Maximum Post-Avant

Simone Muench (Chicago, USA): Three Prose Poems

(an apiary): kristy o

Like aqua eyeliner and Baudelaire, we drink in strange trades, skålling over your chest of bees. What would you choose—red meat or Coco Chanel? gentle violence or violent tenderness? When salsa dancing with Keats’ alias we bloomed gold thighs, pink sadnesses. At your bedroom window, I lean out of refuge, into moth wings. Our black eyes, transparent sting. You said, hello, blank-eyed, zero in! Our home base, a distant cabana, an archipelago; our family secrets, a fenestra, honeycomb riddled by jimsonweed. Sad fictions born of red letter afflictions and the redivivus of arthritic cypress. The light gonged, confirming my senses were leaving me, and you became a foehn, whispering through veils of glamorous biblical women, loaded up on blossom.

(beetle-beauty): lauren l

Through fossils of grapefruit, your words full of climacteric Kafka sadness. Night moths rest in your carnelian desert. There I found your fire-tossed hair, your jade green horns, and bowed beauty-down. Your father left you a blanket by the mustard-colored wall between a cigar and a scream. The house lost beyond a pepper tree. The curtains, like carapaces, and a mad rushing descent as if to name—strange things narrated—an object that long, shedding its horizon, a Chalcosoma caucasus from the image of your frame.

(a train track): mary b

Train track flutter girl; coriander lips and ale during Prohibition. That empty mouth like a bottle on a man’s neck. Marabou soft, doe's muzzle on a pomegranate split open, ultraviolet. You might have to rid yourself of all boys, mostly rapscallions. How they feel under hands: red fish, big branches caught in your rain-rinsed hair, river tresses. For your thigh, a thread of nine carat bone. While the crossbuck sign danger-flashed its bells, citronella girls smoked Parliaments with a felon; your neckline, a kerosene swoon.

Anselm Berrigan (NYC, USA): Eight poems from Have a Good One

Have A Good One

The promise of a hard-won exuberancebrought you near. The need to bearound the most people doingsomething was a fucking magnet. Fromrunning races to making copies todelivering packages promotion becamea recognizable cycle, if alwayswith a clear ceiling or escape hatch.The latter you design, though awarenessof authority in that regard can betransient. It’s a cheap shot. Honestyin the making. But do the parts get tobe themselves while part of the wholething? And if they’re only themselveslike I’m only my habits and kindnessesmeasuring contact before movingforward we’re done. You’ll call me.I tend to screen. Technology’sbeauty made shapely by the choice.Bits of it, I mean. Shape is for the birds.

Have A Good One

Choose your own adventurelacked possibility. Trycoming home to yourwildlife books sold offby adult creep typesafter enduring Boulder’ssecond grade. You’re hopelesslyout of touch with the cultureyou use by looking at. Youcan be culture, but notaccused of it. Dream giantcockroach in the walldreams but more oftenpull endless stringfrom the mouth.

It's become harder and hardernot to take responsibility. Forall of it. Every bastion ofdisrepair, every qualified publicapology for ill-tongued remarks.Every pasture of redespair, everymade up resume of a sorry. Itsbeen harder not to undergo surgeryor plead for indifference from thefeds. Don’t you see them seeing you?Remember when them seeing us waswhat we wanted? And yet I was in highschool: The President's Daddywas the President.